


Wasted tea

by Baryshnikov



Series: Spoiled Fruit [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Control, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Power Dynamics, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Harry is willing to give Tom what he wants most: control.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Spoiled Fruit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616770
Comments: 3
Kudos: 332





	Wasted tea

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally admitted to myself that I've written too many fics like this, so to remind myself of these wrongs, I've put them all into one series.

Tom took his time stirring his tea, dipping the teaspoon in and mixing counterclockwise, letting the metal clink repeatedly against the side and waiting for the two cubes of sugar to properly dissolve. They hadn’t yet, and every so often Tom felt the tip of the spoon scrape against the growing pile of granules sitting at the bottom of the cup.

The rest of the room was quiet, a gentle sort of quietude where nothing needed to be said. Though it was repeatedly interrupted by Harry; him shifting and moving and even breathing – to put it simply, he wasn’t a quiet person, not like Tom. For, where every one of Tom’s movements was smooth and sleek and methodical, every one of Harry’s was stuttering and disjointed and awkward; they fitted together well like that. 

Complementary, not identical. 

Tom continued to stir, listening to the shuffle of Harry’s feet, the rough sound of the material of his socks against the leather of the sofa; a scratching on Tom’s ear. But that wasn’t the only sound Harry was making, there was also the frequent flipping of his magazine pages, too fast for him to have been reading them properly. 

That, and he was breathing too fast. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Tom couldn’t help himself, not when the rhythm was so painfully _off_ from what it usually was, even though Harry was doing his best to disguise it. 

But you couldn’t disguise something as obvious as want.

Harry shifted again, the leather squeaking and sliding under his weight; the movement sent slight ripples through Tom’s tea. Just three little circles pulsing out from the centre almost like a heart. Tom continued his stirring and pretended not to notice how Harry glanced up for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. It was too many, really. 

Clearly, he wanted something. 

Though whether he would ask for it was always a contentious issue. Harry had problems asking for what he wanted, so he tended not to ask for them, rather like a repeatedly denied child who’d given up hope. Instead, he merely sat there, waiting and wanting, but not doing anything about it. 

Sometimes, Tom found that sweet, almost endearing that in some aspects Harry could still be so… innocent. But, other times, it grated on Tom’s nerves, getting right under his skin in a distinctly annoying way, not that Tom would never mention it out loud, or even express it at all; he would simply let it be. Not today though, today he was in a singularly _indulgent_ mood.

Perhaps, it was Harry’s own agitation that was getting into him like a sea fog winding itself around his fingers and snaking down his throat, or perhaps, it was merely his own insidious craving for a very _specific_ brand of control. Either way, Tom wanted Harry, wanted him down on his knees with that faint glaze of vulnerability, like a film oil spread over his eyes and moulded into his mouth. 

Tom removed the spoon from his tea and placed it on the saucer, as if on cue, Harry glanced over again, before quickly setting his gaze back to the page of his magazine when he realised that Tom was paying attention. His eyes stayed there, focussed on the same section, the headline that spanned a double-page spread; not that he was reading it. Just staring silently at it.

Ever so carefully, Tom shifted, moving the cup from one hand to the other; he felt Harry’s eyes on him immediately. All it was, was this heaviness like someone was pressing their fingers into the side of his cheek, but that was all it needed to be. 

“See something you like?” Tom said softly, not looking over at Harry because he didn’t need to. Without having to look, he could picture the baby-pink flush of embarrassment at being caught as it dispersed over Harry’s skin; first swallowing his cheeks before oozing down his throat and beneath the collar of his shirt. But it was what was under that initial shame that was far more potent, and far more interesting. 

Tom could feel it in the twitching of Harry’s hands against the arm of the sofa, pressing into the leather before raising his fingers up again and watching the material reform itself. Not only that, but so too was it infused into the constant rolling of Harry’s shoulders, and the micromovements of him shifting his hips back and forth.

Just hearing him, knowing he was there and _feeling_ him made something flare up in the base of Tom’s stomach; a sensation, deep and warm pushing firmly against his pelvis. Tom licked his lips and shifted himself, spreading his legs ever so slightly wider, and pressing the hand that was not holding his tea, into his thigh.

He exhaled. 

“So, Harry,” he murmured, “Is there something you want?” As he spoke Tom moved his thumb, rubbing a line through his slacks and right into his skin; the material feeling rougher the more he pressed. In his periphery, he could see Harry’s mouth moving, his lips forming words that he couldn’t speak because, for some reason, they stung his tongue. 

The silence stretched on.

Harry’s mouth continued to move, and he made the quietest sounds. Nothing more than stuttered lungsful of oxygen as he tried to articulate quite what it was that he wanted out of this moment. Tom watched. Studying how the warm lights fell against his face, creating corners where there weren’t any and angles that made no sense when applied to the human face. 

He was mesmerising and Tom could spend all night watching the speckles of light glint off Harry’s glasses, and how his throat dipped and rose as he swallowed down another sentence.   
“I… I want…” Harry started, still looking at the magazine, his fingers stroking over the gloss of the page, “I want to make you happy,” he said eventually.

That was sweet. 

“Happy?” said Tom, keeping the slight lilt of surprise in his tone; it made it warmer like heated honey drizzled over a dessert, “but you’re doing that already,” he murmured, raising his cup to take a sip of his tea, whilst continuing to watch Harry over the rim. Seeing how he tried to steady himself, both feet pressed into the carpet and his hands scratching lightly on the edge of the seat. 

Harry inhaled; one big breath, and he turned to face him. “I want to please you,” he said, the words all coming out in one flurry like a single forceful wave hitting the beach at a strange angle. Harry’s eyes were firmly on him now, latched almost to his image, and the light cast confident shadows that helped to conceal the shaking of his tone. 

“I want to give you what you want most.”

Tom swallowed and lowered his tea. There were suggestions in that tone, and a confidence he so rarely got to see from Harry. This profound determination that had settled on him and now seeped into Harry’s being like melting snow; he could see it in the set of his mouth, still soft at the edges but hard in the centre, utterly resolute. It shouldn’t have had the effect that it did. But seeing Harry so… sure of himself and so _willing_ sent a spike of want up Tom’s spine, just these tiny barbs of a growing appetite prickling at his stomach like thistles.

All whilst that same perpetual warmth continued to spread like a viscous liquid, pushing itself around his body, easing open each blood vessel until Tom felt hot and strangely exposed; vulnerable in a way that only Harry could make him. He pressed his weight down into the sofa and spread his legs wider still, already picturing what Harry thought he wanted most. 

“And what do I want _most_ , Harry?” he said, holding his tea tighter than before just to still the pangs of anticipation. There was something so illicit in having the words unspoken, but in the air; filling up the space until he couldn’t help but breathe in the particles and let them open him up from the inside out.

It was an intimate kind of sticky-sweet suffering. 

For a moment, Harry just watched him as the lights painted patterns over his glasses, though none of their arrangements could hide how his pupils were stretched wide, swallowing up the distance between them like it was nothing. Tom tried to focus on something else, and his gaze fell on the way that Harry’s tongue was wetting a line along his lips. “You want complete control,” Harry murmured, “it’s what you’ve _always_ wanted.”

It was Tom’s turn to let his lips move, brushing at the air but staying silent because the words weren’t leaving his mouth like they were supposed to. Instead, they got caught in his throat or hooked over the tip of his tongue; stuck there like an insect drowning in pitcher fluid.

“Is that what you think?” he said eventually, trying the ignore the swelling heat just below his ribs; the slow knotting of his insides as they pressed together. Tom swallowed again. He couldn’t bring himself to have another sip of his tea, so it just sat there in his hand, the faint curl of steam the only thing separating them.

Harry stood up then, the sofa creaking at the sudden change. Slowly, almost shuffling, he moved to be in front of Tom, and he knelt, knees digging into the carpet and eyes settled on the shadow where the sofa met the floor. They were close like this, too close, really. The distance slight enough that it got a buzzing started under Tom’s skin; this sharp, almost electrical current humming in his veins. It made him want to reach out and touch Harry, just drag a hand through his hair or feel the heat of his skin against his palm. 

“Is that what you think I want?” he repeated, gripping onto his cup tighter, fingers wrapping around the porcelain and squeezing, not caring if they burnt just to stop himself from _touching_ Harry.

With a slight incline of his head, Harry met his eyes, “I know it’s what you want,” he murmured, “and I want it too.” There was such a sincerity to that look, the same innocence that he’d lauded earlier, though now it only encouraged the creeping heat into every muscle; effortlessly opening him up from the inside until he was aching for it. 

“I want you to use me however you like,” Harry continued, “I want you to just… take what you want; ‘cause I like it when you do that.”

The mild ache in the bottom of his stomach was now a pleasant throbbing; almost like another pulse buried somewhere inside him, making him shift involuntarily. Harry was the only one who could provoke a response like this simply from being there. Talking. Saying words that contained nothing _inappropriate_ and yet sounded so indecent against his ear. 

But, if that was what Harry wanted, then who was he to deny him?

Harry deserved everything he wanted. 

So, Tom balanced the teacup on the arm of the chair, ignoring that he’d drunk less than half, and instead, leant forward. Ever so carefully he stroked his knuckles down Harry’s cheek, feeling the heat of the skin, before dipping them down along his jawbone, and pushing his nails into the soft skin below his chin until he raised it up. There was such vulnerability in that gesture and such a lovely _willingness_ to be used 

“Well, if that’s what you want,” he murmured, “then I’ll indulge you.”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I regret what this turned into


End file.
